


DREAM.exe

by purplesunsets



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Computer Viruses, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Gunplay, Identity Porn, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Manipulation, Organized Crime, Psychological Horror, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesunsets/pseuds/purplesunsets
Summary: Dream swirls the amber liquid in his glass, and brings it to his lips but doesn’t take a sip. In the dim light, its amber color seems to match his eyes.“What did you say, pretty boy?” Dream chuckles lowly.George fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves and swallows roughly. “We had an agreement.”“What if,” Dream begins, voice raspy and hoarse. “I want more than that.”He stands up and moves to stand before George, briefly lifting up his shirt to expose cold steel against tanned skin.“I want you, George.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 455





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow those are some juicy tags! Make sure to read them carefully, this work will contain disturbing content. 
> 
> Also, this title has absolutely no reference to Markiplier LMAO

“It’s kind of shitty to target universities.” George mumbles and leans into his desk chair. “Isn’t it?”

“Money is money, George.” Wilbur sighs and reaches for his beer on the coffee table. “You’ve never had a problem with ransomware before.”

“Well, yeah. But it feels wrong to extort college kids to get it.” 

“It’s not worse than targeting fucking hospital patients.” Wilbur snaps. “You had no problem launching a cyberattack on fucking network of hospitals. You demanded a three million dollar ransom and _still_ leaked the medical records of thousands.” 

“That was different and you know it.” George bites the inside of his cheek. 

“On paper, it’s all the same. Manipulation of the innocent.” Wilbur chides him. “You’re not one to talk ethics.”

“Stop patronizing me. I’d like to see you write a line of code, asshole.” 

“Need I remind you, you’re lucky to have this job, and you have it far easier than most. Hell, look at your apartment.” Wilbur barks a laugh. “I’d get working on your computer shit. You know what the organization does to rats.”

“Are you threatening me?” 

“I’m _protecting_ you. You’re my friend, but I’m being realistic. I’m not going to coddle you because your self-preservation is shot to hell.”

“I can handle myself.” George snaps. 

“All I’m saying is to be careful.” Wilbur holds his hands up placatingly.

“Whatever. Don’t you have bullshit to organize or something?” George rolls his eyes. 

“I keep track of finances, Mr. Malware.”

George doesn’t respond and refocuses on the blinking cursor on his screen. It’s tried and true code, lines of certain devastation. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about it. He’d be excited, proud even. It’s a win-win situation: the University pays the ransom or the personal information of its students is sold on the Dark Web. It’s a simple formula. 

“These students are American.” George frowns. “You know I don’t fuck with Americans.”

“So what? Social Security numbers sell.” Wilbur grins. “We’re already on the UK watchlist, might as well look abroad.”

“I think we’re biting off more than we can chew. We’re part of a fucking glorified gang.” George crosses his arms. 

“Crime syndicate.” Wilbur corrects him. 

“That’s not the point. The hospitals were the biggest thing we’ve pulled off to date, and that was domestic. I’m used to fooling individuals into paying ransoms or giving up their credit card number. Not this. This is big.”

“You can pull it off though.” 

“Sure, but does it matter? It’s American and we shouldn’t touch that shit.” George snaps.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Those fucking American pricks get involved.”

“So, you do know.” Wilbur smiles grimly. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”

George turns away from his monitor to face Wilbur. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“I don’t know. Are we on the same page?” Wilbur finishes the rest of his drink, a Mona Lisa smile on his lips.

“Quit being so cryptic, it’s annoying.” George huffs. “I’m talking about the assassination, the power grab.”

“The Brotherhood?” Wilbur raises an eyebrow.

“Yes.” George nods. “They’re absorbing smaller groups and even mobs across the United States. Basically the entire country is gang territory now, consolidated all under one man.”

“I heard the same thing.” Wilbur purses his lips. “You really think they’d notice this attack?”

“I’ve heard that their new guy—the kid—the one that killed his father to come into power, is fond of computers. They have eyes on the internet like you wouldn’t believe.” 

“So they’re run by a sweaty nerd.” Wilbur smirks. “That’s embarrassing.”

“You’re so obnoxious.” George smiles. “It’s all people are talking about on the forums. Even small, individual hackers are shying away from the business. I have a feeling that The Brotherhood won’t like a cyberattack of this scale in their country, from a group of outsiders. Much less in the city they’re based in.”

“So you’re worried that they’ll be angry over profit that they aren’t making?” Wilbur mutters. “It’s valid, but what can you even do at this point?”

“Nothing. It’s already said and done.”

“Fuck I don’t know, can you reroute the attack? Send it to a Canadian school or some shit.” 

“You know I can’t. Boss was very specific, Florida State or I get fucking gutted like a fish.” George groans. 

“Sounds like something personal there.” Wilbur grimaces. 

“Maybe. It doesn’t matter, though. No matter what I do, I’m dead.”

“Cheers to that.” Wilbur replies darkly and raises his empty glass. 

George falls asleep when the sun is just beginning to bleed from the horizon, drunk on beer he’s too wealthy for with Wilbur still on his couch. Thousands of miles away, his ransomware runs rampant, infecting computers across a campus of thirty thousand. 

—

“Hello?”

“We got the money.” Wilbur says hurriedly, slightly muffled through George’s phone. “You did it.”

“Secured the bag.” George jokes. “That’s great.”

Wilbur doesn’t reply.

“You still there?” George clears his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah. Just be careful, okay?”

“What, why? Did something happen?” 

“Kind of. I can’t tell you specifics over the phone, though. It’s probably nothing, anyway.” Wilbur clears his throat. “We’ve been getting some strange messages from a man named Dream. We think he’s with the Brotherhood.”

“Shit, really?” George glances out his window. The sun is high in the clouds, and a gentle breeze makes the trees sway. It’s the perfect day for disaster.

“Yeah, but you probably don’t have much to worry about. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“What was the message?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Wilbur says quickly, nearly speaking over George.

“Wait, can you come over and tell me then, I’m just debugging a side project today.” 

“I need to go. Stay safe.” Wilbur hangs up.

“Bye.” George tells the dead line. 

—

Email after email pours into George’s inbox. Attached to each message is a file named ‘Dream.exe.’ It’s blatantly a virus, almost laughable at how obviously suspicious it is. But it’s still unnerving, it was sent to his personal account, an address only his close friends and family knows. Even if it was his work account, it would still be strange. He wonders if maybe it’s a worm, but god he hopes it isn’t.

George deletes the emails but they seem endless. Eventually, he gives up and logs out from his email. There’s not much he can do anyway, blocking the address doesn’t work since it comes from a slightly different one each time. He wonders if this is the message that the other guys in the organization were dealing with. Part of him doubts it, because surely Wilbur would’ve mentioned if there was a virus attached to it, unless he couldn’t recognize it. Maybe, this is something entirely different.

Eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he logs in again. He clicks on the most recent email and the file states back at him. He opens it in a virtual machine environment to safely run the program. He knows it’s probably a waste of time, but he rationalizes it: maybe there’s something he can learn from the file, or at least better understand the situation and prepare.

Bright green and red pixels flash across the screen in a blur and a web page is opened automatically. In plain text, the only words on the screen are ‘Welcome to the DreamScape.’

It seems simple enough, but when he tries to exit the tab, an error box pops up with a message: ‘Why are you leaving, George?’

George tries to force quit the application but the screen is completely frozen, even though it’s a virtual environment. Blue fills his screen as Windows begins to restart unprompted. Once the system boots up again, he’s met by the familiar sign-in screen. Everything seems normal except his username has changed. ‘IMWATCHING’ it reads. He enters his usual password and feels his heart sink when it works.

He’s fucked. He has a fucking degree in computer science and years of experience as a black hat hacker, and he’s still fucked. 

The virtual environment is gone, and in its place dozens of bright green squares fill his screen, files named ‘DREAM.SCAPE.’ Only one is different, a simple text document named ‘Open me!’ He tries to shut down his computer but error boxes fill his screen: ‘Please stay, George!’ Every time he dismisses one, a new one appears.

The document opens on its own.

_‘I know it was you, George. I’m in your computer. You really thought you could pull that shit under my nose and get away with it? The Brotherhood sees everything. I see everything.’_

George’s lungs feel like they are filled with water, no matter how deeply he inhales, he still can’t breathe. He’s so confused and disoriented. He doesn’t understand how any of this is happening and curses himself for even going on his computer at all. 

He immediately covers his webcam, and prays that there isn’t spyware in whatever the fuck is happening. He tries to call Wilbur but his call goes to voicemail. He sends a text to a few of the other guys he knows, even though he’s not sure they’d be of any help.

A dialogue box appears on the screen: _‘Let me see you, baby. Talk to me, don't be shy.’_

It’s probably the worst decision he could make, but George uncovers his camera. Whoever is doing this is dangerous, he has nothing left to lose.

“Aren’t you something?” A voice, bright and oddly young sounding croons from the speakers. “My little hacker.”

George squirms uncomfortably in his seat but doesn’t say anything. He considers unplugging his PC entirely, but it’s probably too late for that.

“You know your way around a computer, yeah? Extortion, ransomware type shit, that’s not child’s play.”

George stares pointedly at the floor.

“Eyes up here, baby.” 

“What?” George mumbles meekly, panic crawling up his throat. “What do you want?”

“Nothing, you’re just nice to look at.” The man laughs raucously. “Did you like your gift? I worked hard on that virus. Just for you.”

“I liked it.” George forces out.

“A man of taste, I see. What else do you like?”

“Not much.” George digs his nails into the palm of his hands.

“You like living? You like your parents? You like that bastard with the curly hair?” 

“What are you saying?” George swallows. 

“I don’t know. It would just be a shame to put a bullet through that pretty skull of yours. You know, lips like yours sell. Many people would pay good money for a snuff film of you.” Images of George’s mutilated corpse, being fucked, being used fill his mind. “I know I would.”

George doesn’t like that he can hear the smile in the man’s voice. “What do you want from me?”

“I want intel, I want secrets. You’re part of a well-known group of cyber criminals. You know shit. I’m no fool, I know that there’s more to you than cock-sucking lips.” 

“You want me to work for you? Is that it?” George asks cautiously.

“So we’ve come to an understanding, then.”

George doesn’t feel understood, but doesn’t think it would be wise to say so.

“You’re one of the big boys now. I think this will be a beneficial partnership. Nice doing business with you, George.”

Before he can reply, the screen goes dark, a small message box in the center: _‘Pack your bags. —Dream.’_

—

George locks his doors and windows and snaps his PC’s hard drive in half. He scrambled to discard every item he owns of importance, anything that could be used against him. He shoves a laptop and his wallet into a backpack and tucks his gun into his waistband. He’s never shot anyone before, and hopes he doesn’t need to. 

“Hey, Wilbur. It’s me. Something weird is happening. It’s connected to the thing you mentioned with Dream, I spoke to the guy.” George sighs. “I’m coming over if you don’t call me back.” Wilbur isn’t answering any of his texts, and his calls go to voicemail each time. He wonders if this is just bad timing or an omen of something more insidious. 

His Uber shows up at the curb of his apartment building, five minutes early. Time that might be the difference between life and death. He gets in the black SUV and buckles in, his stomach turning when the driver inexplicably locks the doors. But George doesn’t have the piece of mind to ask why. He’s more focused on trying to stop shaking.

“Get a grip, George.” He mutters to himself.

The beginning of the drive seems normal enough, but the driver keeps missing turn after turn. George brushes it off until he checks Google Maps and realizes that they’re going in the opposite direction, away from Wilbur’s flat.

“Excuse me? I think you made a wrong turn.” George hesitantly tells the driver.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you think you could double check? Sorry.” 

Abruptly, the car halts to a stop. The man opens the glove box and holds a gun to George’s face. Point blank. “Still want me to double check?” The man sneers. And then George hears it, the American accent. Either a violent coincidence or a Brotherhood cronie.

Before George can reach for his own gun, or even just duck out of the way, he feels a gloved hand snake around his neck and hold him flush against the car seat. A man in the trunk breathes heavily in his ear while the driver holds the gun steady. 

“Careful now.” The gloved man says, fingers digging into George’s windpipe.

George doesn’t even get a chance to struggle or fight. He feels a needle prick his neck and he fades in and out of consciousness for most of the trip. He’s delirious and drugged, which makes everything feel like a strange nightmare, hazy and nonsensical. Part of him expects to wake up, for it to be all over. But the guns jabbing at the base of his spine are cold and real. His life as he knows it has ended. 

He’s blindfolded for most of the trip, left only with his thoughts and darkness. He wonders just how powerful The Brotherhood must be, probably more than he had even anticipated. At this point all he can do is cooperate, there is no escape for someone like him. Even calling the police isn’t an option: a ticket to a lifetime in prison. Though he’s not sure if this is the better option. 

Distantly, he tries to think of what Wilbur would’ve told him to do. Run? Hide? George isn’t sure that even a man like Wilbur—clever and level headed—could’ve avoided this. For Wilbur’s sake, he hopes the man doesn’t look for him and involve himself in this any more than he already has, he doubts it would even help. 

When he wakes up fully and finally he’s laying on his side in the back of a car, with hands and feet bound, and a gag stuffed in his mouth. The leather seats cling to his skin, sticky with cold sweat. Vaguely, he recognizes the car as some variety of a Benz, undoubtedly expensive.

In the front of the car sits a man with broad shoulders and blond hair. In some other universe, maybe he’d be a surfer or some sort of entertainer, not a member of the most dangerous mob organization in the world. Beside him sits a slightly shorter man, with dark hair and a sharp tongue. They’re both young, probably even younger than George, from what he can see of their profiles. It makes him wonder what the fuck is going on. Nothing makes sense.

“Dream, look. Bitch baby woke up.” The man with dark hair jeers.

“Don’t call him that, Sapnap. It’s not a good business practice.” Dream snorts. “Take out his gag.” 

Sapnap reaches back and yanks the cloth from between George’s lips. “Got anything to say?” 

“What?” George slurs. “Who are you?”

“You sure this is your guy? Seems kind of dense.”

Dream ignores him. “How are you feeling, George?”

George blinks owlishly at the back of his head.

“I’ve heard you speak before, George. No need to be so shy. You recognize my voice, right?”

It’s Dream, but George isn’t sure what that means for him. “What’s happening? I thought you wanted me to work for you.” George hears himself say.

“I do. It’s why I picked you up myself. I wanted to have you hand-delivered to me.” Dream says as though it’s some great reward for George. “You’re a slippery motherfucker.”

“Why?” George chokes out through the panic that is slowly setting in as the drugs wear off. “Why did you go to this length to take me? Wouldn’t it be easier to have me dead?”

“You’re something special, George. Beauty and brains or whatever the fuck. Don’t sell yourself short.” Dream laughs cruelly. “I’ve been watching you for a while, but Christ you’ve made it hard. Even for a black hat, your PC is secure as fuck.”

“How long?” George blurts, though he’s not sure why he’s even asking. If he was smart he wouldn’t be making conversation with his kidnapper. But there’s something about Dream’s easy smiles and warm demeanor that makes George feel strangely at ease. “How long have you been watching?”

“Long enough.” Dream answers curtly. “You’re easy to fall in love with, George.”

“You’re in love with me?” George stammers. Because this is fucking weird.

“No. Of course not.” Dream laughs. “I don’t love anyone.” 

“Except me.” Sapnap elbows Dream in the side.

“You wish.” 

George wets his lips and tries to comprehend this. If it weren’t for the ropes restricting him, or the fact that he’s been kidnapped, the men in the car would almost seem normal. Maybe even potential friends.

“Who are you, Dream?” George frowns.

“You ask a lot of questions. You have a lot of nerve.” Dream says, though he doesn’t seem mad. “Why don’t you try to figure it out? You’ll understand soon enough.”

_Survive,_ George reminds himself. All he has to do is survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: learns the basics of coding and thinks I can write a fucking mafia coding clusterfuck
> 
> Btw since a friend asked me, an .exe file is not necessarily a virus, but can be malware since it contains code to execute actions and make changes on your device :)
> 
> I know I have three wips but I just can’t help myself hehe
> 
> This probably seems fast paced, but I’m trying to experiment with different plot structure. Usually I establish the lovely dovey shit and then tear it apart. And it’s good and all, but I’m looking forward to something new. Who knows maybe I’ll even fuck around and add chapter titles at some point. Also I will be calling this bitch Clay at some point, but it’ll be like, identity porn. Kinda.
> 
> <333
> 
> I’ve been really overwhelmed lately so I haven’t been responding to comments much, but I appreciate the support so much!! Thank you :,)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I changed this in the first chapter already but Sapnap is being called Sapnap (for now). It just felt weird that Dream has “mob name” but his right hand man wouldn’t.
> 
> Also, TW// brief negative attitudes toward sex workers, brief mention of past homelessness
> 
> Please let me know if there is anything I haven’t mentioned or tagged that you think should be!

“Don’t even try it.” Dream tells George sweetly while he unties his hands and feet.

George still feels sluggish from whatever he was drugged with, but he’s beginning to realize what the fuck is happening. On the horizon, the sun is setting, casting a blood-red glow on every surface in the apartment, perhaps a bad omen, or the stain of finality.

“Fuck you.” George watches as his ropes fall to the marble floor. His skin sticks unpleasantly to the leather couch he’s sitting on. 

“Careful now.” Dream smiles darkly. 

George yanks his arms to his chest. The places where Dream touched his skin burn.

“You were so docile in the car.” Dream laughs. “What, you don’t like my apartment?”

“You drugged me. If I was fucking docile or whatever the shit, it was because you drugged me.” George spits in Dream’s face. 

“So that’s how you want to play?” Dream hisses, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “That’s cute.”

George kicks him in the shin as hard as he can.

“Woah. What’s with all the aggression? We’re all friends here, George.” Sapnap gets in George’s face, breath hot against George’s face. “You really want us to stop playing nice?” 

“Nothing about this is nice. You both are fucking monsters.” George chokes out.

Suddenly, Sapnap punches him across the face, George’s neck twisting with the impact. In the wake, his ears are ringing and his vision is blurred. 

“What the fuck was that?” George touches his face hesitantly. His fingers come away red. 

“Did baby not like that?” Dream coos, whispering into his ear. “You’d make such a beautiful corpse.”

George’s mind is blank with terror. Without the adrenaline or the drugs, he’s helpless. He finally understands the gravity of what’s happening.

Dream leans closer and begins to lap at the blood on George’s cheek. George feels frozen in place and doesn’t lean away even though he wants nothing more than to run. 

“Aren’t you two cute?” Sapnap drawls. “Don’t make me mother you, Dream. You can fuck him later for all I care, but you have shit to do first.”

“Alright, alright.” Dream chuckles and pulls away. “Hand me the monitor.”

Sapnap passes Dream something small and black, it looks a bit like a walkie talkie on a strap. Before George can react, it’s locked around his ankle.

“I’m the inky one that controls this. You try to leave this place, I’ll know, and I’ll fucking blow your brains out.” Dream pats his knee. “But you’re smarter than that.”

“You sure you want him for tech? We already have plenty of good computer guys, and you know he’d sell.” Sapnap grabs George by the neck and forces a gun in his mouth. “See? Look at this whore.”

“I didn’t import him on a private jet to make him a prostitute. So I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like he is one, Sapnap.” Dream gently pulls the pistol from George’s mouth. “Be more careful with him, he’s mine.”

“He’s fucking writing code for you.” Sapnap scoffs. 

“Mine.” Clay repeats, face cast dark with shadows, the last streaks of sunlight illuminate the green and yellow flecks in his eyes. “Why don’t you go home for tonight? You’re really fucking getting on my nerves.”

“Whatever.” Sapnap grumbles, but leaves silently.

“Finally.” Dream sighs once the door has clicked shut. “Love that bastard with all my heart but he’s a little piece of shit when he wants to be.”

George stares at the monitor on his ankle. It feels like he’s been branded. 

“Come on, I’ll show you to your apartment.” Dream goes to the door and motions for George to follow.

“My apartment?”

“I own this entire building. It’s the least I could do.” Dream shrugs. 

“Oh.” George says dumbly. “Thank you, Dream.” He feels oddly grateful. He was drugged, kidnapped, and coerced, but it still could be so much worse. He had been homeless for a short time after university, so the value of having a place to sleep is not lost on him.

Dream smiles, something tender in his gaze that George wishes wasn’t there. “Of course. I like to spoil my friends.”

George bites his tongue. They’re not friends.

—

“This is it. You have a state of the art PC on your desk there. Don’t think about contacting anyone, it runs solely on the Brotherhood’s server and all your usage is monitored anyway.” Dream gestures grandly to the apartment. It’s a simple three room unit, but it has the same luxurious finishes as Dream’s penthouse. Just with the addition of multiple cameras in the corners of each room.

“It’s nice.” George replies tersely, suppressing the vague urge of wanting to smash his skull against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“By the way—you haven’t met him yet—Vadim is going to be your guard. Make sure no funny business is happening here.” 

“Love it.” George intones.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Dream smirks. “Before I go, any questions?”

“How’d you get into my computer?” George stammers. “You sent your email bullshit but that shouldn’t have done anything.”

“So you think I know about some back door that you don’t? Don’t be so naive.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a skilled programmer. You know this shit better than anyone else I’ve ever met. Even myself. It’s why I was so desperate to get my hands on you.” 

“I still don’t get it. The program had to be downloaded to my machine. It was spyware. I know spyware when I see it, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Well,  _ you  _ wouldn’t have.” Dream sighs. “You’re really stupid for someone so smart.”

Sweat beads at the base of George’s neck. Nervously, he twists his hands together.

“Don’t you get it? The file was downloaded by someone else. It was timed to go off when I knew you’d be alone. Though I’m honored you think I’m  _ that  _ skilled to bypass your fucking beast of a firewall.”

“Who did it?” George blurts.

“Come on, George. Don’t you already know?” Dream snorts. “Don’t make me spell it out for you, pretty boy.”

“Wilbur. It had to be.” George breathes, and feels himself go through the seven stages of grief.

“Bingo.” 

“But—how, what?” George feels like his mouth is filled with sand and he can barely form words. “He’s my friend.”

“Was he really?” Dream asks softly. “Or was he just a sellout? A liar? Using you to save his ass.”

“He was my friend. He was supposed to be my friend.” George repeats bitterly, tears clouding his vision. “But he warned me. He told me about you.”

“Guilt or just another false show of concern?” Dream wipes a tear from George’s cheek gently. “Even if he wanted to help, it didn’t change shit in the end, did it?” In contrast, his words feel like a verbal slap as George questions every moment from the last five years that he’s known Wilbur. Could it have all been fake?

“I have no one.” George whispers, and hugs his arms to his chest weakly. Sobs wrack his body as he feels himself break. “He’s my only friend, and now I have no one.”

“You have me. I can make you great, George.”

George hiccups and gasps. He’s  _ alone. _ His relationship with Wilbur had never been close, but he trusted the guy. That was his mistake. Countless nights, Wilbur had sat on George’s couch while they worked in silence.

And it was all time wasted. 

Dream continues as though he hasn’t systematically ruined everything George had thought he knew about his life, “Your assignments are listed in a document on your desktop. Tell Vadim if you need anything.”

George stares at his shoes, scuffed from the struggle. He has a PC, and if he really tried, probably could find a way to contact someone for help. But there’s no one who could help him. He wants to keep his family away from this, and his only friend—in an organization that couldn’t give a shit about him—betrayed him. He tells himself that Wilbur did warn him at least, so maybe there’s more that he doesn’t know. But Dream’s words ring loud in his ears: Wilbur’s warning didn’t change a thing, so did it really matter? If Wilbur was a true friend, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.

“George did you hear me?” Dream asks softly.

“Sorry, what?” George feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Listen to me when I’m speaking, bitch.” Dream shoves George against the wall and holds him there, hands pressing hard against his collarbones. “I’ve been patient. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“I’m sorry.” George repeats and forces himself to make eye contact. He feels small and degraded like this. But he has to survive, if not for himself, then out of spite for Wilbur.

“Of course you are, baby doll.” Dream presses a kiss to George’s forehead, and it hurts in a way that makes George want to both pull away and lean into it.

—

“This is good, this is good.” Dream murmurs while he scrolls through the document at George’s desk. He leans over George, large and solid above him. If it weren’t for the scent of gunpowder on Dream’s collar, it would feel safe.

“It’s nothing. I specialized in steganography in college.” George shrugs, and tries not to blush at the praise. He feels so alone that he’s hilariously desperate for any sliver of kindness.

“It would take most of my guys at least a week to do this, and you pulled it off in just a few days.” Dream mumbles absentmindedly. 

“All I did was embed the script in a Word document.”

“Sure, but you can’t even tell it’s there at all. The user will read the document and fuck over their computer without even realizing. Shit, you don’t even use the typical encryption signature.”

“Well, there’s more than one way to do things, I guess.” George feels a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He hasn’t spoken with someone that actually  _ understood _ in a while, not as well as Dream gets it. “I’ll get working on your next project soon, I just wanted to get this one out of the way since I knew it would be quick.”

“God, Wilbur was a damned fool to give you up for some fucking cash. You were the best asset your fucking rag-tag hacking group had, and now you’re mine.” Dream claps George on the shoulder. “You’re worth more than I paid, that’s for sure. You’re something special.”

“Thank you, Dream.” George bows his head slightly and averts his eyes. 

“I know value when I see it. You deserve to be rewarded, George.” 

“I do?” 

“Of course. You’re doing high profile shit now, you should look the part.” 

—

“You’re so lithe. I love fitting suits for men like you.” The stylist—a sophisticated man in his thirties with glasses—gushes as he takes George’s measurements.

“Thanks.” George shifts and rubs the back of his neck. In the corner of the room, Dream watches amusedly. 

“I want silk shirts with a navy suit for meetings. And a black one with white accents to match me at events, Gene.” Dream tells the stylist. “What do you think?”

“No one will be able to keep their eyes off him, that’s for sure.” Gene throws the tape measure over his shoulder. “I think I have an Armani on hand that will look good, I’ll be back.”

Gene disappears behind a curtain and George becomes increasingly aware of how Dream is looking at him, like he’s a piece of meat. 

“You’re going to look good in silk, George.” Dream stands up and approaches the small platform that George stands on. 

“Thank you.” 

“Look at me when I speak.” Dream growls and yanks George’s head by hair at the crown of his scalp. “You’re so pretty, I want to see you.”

George stares helplessly into Dream’s eyes, they remind him of cow eyes, glassy and expressive. It’s beautiful. 

“Gentlemen, please. This is a suit fitting. Keep it in your pants.” Gene clears his throat.

“Gene, you sonofabitch.” Dream cackles, but relents.

“Try this on, George.” Gene hands him a lightly woolen suit. Fibers of navy and blue dance across the fabric in a way that reminds George of the Brighton sea.

George shrugs on the coat and steps into the trousers. It’s slim cut and a near perfect fit despite being off the rack. Gene pinches it with a clip at the back, cinching it perfectly. 

“That’s hot.” Dream winks, but it’s awkwardly endearing in a boyish way that makes George wonder just how old he really is. 

“I’ll have the suits delivered to you within a week. Ties, shoes, shirts, everything extra as well.” 

“I could kiss you, Gene.” Dream hands the man a black credit card.

“Please refrain.” Gene answers pleasantly and takes the card from Dream’s hand.

—

“You’re distracting me.” George shoves Sapnap’s hand off his keyboard. 

“I’ve been told I’m very distracting.” 

“You are, asshole.” George mutters.

“Watch yourself. It’s my word against yours.”

“I know.” George sighs and saves the file. He’s not going to get any work done anyway.

“You don’t seem to care.” Sapnap squints. “Why?”

“My life has already ended.” George laughs humorlessly. “Death doesn’t seem so cruel anymore.”

“There are things far worse than death.” Sapnap takes out a butterfly knife from his pocket and flips it open. “Death isn’t painful in the way life is.”

“I’ve been kidnapped, lied to, sold, drugged. I don’t see how it could get worse.”

“George. Look at me.” Sapnap hands the knife to him. Perhaps as a show of trust, perhaps he just doesn’t feel like holding it any longer. “I’m top of the food chain, Dream’s right hand man, yeah?”

George nods.

“Before Dream, when his father was in charge, I was a drug mule.” Sapnap’s voice hitches. “Shit really fucks you up.”

“Sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t do shit for me, it doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t take away the fact that I still fucking miss heroin.” Sapnap covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath. “Listen, I’m saying this because I want you to know how much worse it could be. Dream likes you, he values you.“

“He does?” George bites the inside of his cheek. 

“You’re an idiot.” Sapnap rolls his eyes. “He went through all this effort for you. Maybe not with good intentions, but he’s treating you well now, so who gives a shit.”

“He just wants me to expand his power. He doesn’t actually like  _ me.  _ He just likes what I can do for him.” George runs a hand through his hair. “He acts like I’m some god. I’m not. Fuck, I’m just a guy who knows how to code.”

“You keep selling yourself short. Cut it out. If you don’t think you’re worth shit, people will treat you like it. In the Brotherhood you can’t seem weak, okay? I know you've joined us through unconventional means, but you’re one of us now.”

“Why are you being so nice? You fucking shoved a gun down my throat yesterday.” George doesn’t like it. He’s never been good at deciphering mixed signals. At least with Wilbur, it was consistent: dull conversations and general disinterest.

“I’m a nice guy, George. That was just roughhousing. Don’t take it personal.” 

“It seemed personal.” 

In an instant, Sapnap snatches the blade back from George and holds it beneath his chin. “Do you have a death wish? You keep trying to get under my skin, can you fucking chill?”

“What are you going to do?” George hisses. “Pimp me out? Make me a crackwhore like you?” He croaks and immediately regrets it.

“Fuck you!” Sapnap snarls and forces George’s face against the desk so hard he feels hot bloody tears start to fall from his eyes. “If it weren’t for Dream I’d kill you here on the goddamn spot, do you hear me?!”

“Do it.” George says deliriously. He hates his fucking life, he’s hated it long before Dream. “Do it, kill me, pussy.”

“You wish.” Sapnap sneers, and bangs George’s head against the desk once more. “I hope you die in your sleep.”

“Me too.” George snorts, and wipes the blood from his cheek.

—

“Have a seat, George.” Dream motions to the plush loveseat in his living room. It’s the first time in a week that George has been back up here. 

George doesn’t say anything and sits down. In front of him, Dream paces in front of the windows with a glass of what looks like rum in his grasp.

“You’ve upset, Sapnap.” Dream says, expression unreadable. “He wants to be friendly with you, but you hurt him.”

“I’m sorry.” George begins nervously, bile warm in his chest.

“I’m not done.” Dream snaps. “Yes, you upset him. But I specifically told him to keep his hands off you. He was rough with you that first night, I told him to not make it a habit.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” George feels an urge to defend Sapnap even though he doesn’t know why. Part of him feels guilty, even though he knows he shouldn’t give a shit about Sapnap’s feelings. “I deserved it.”

“I don’t give a shit what you said to him, or what you  _ think  _ is okay. I watched the security footage. He made you bleed from your fucking eyes. That is not okay.”

George tries not to choke on the terror that threatens to spill from between his lips.

“But I’m also hurt. Do you really not know how much you mean to me? Are you really that unhappy? I’ve done so much for you and this is how you repay me?” Dream sets down his now empty glass and motions for George to follow him. “You’re making me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Where are we going?” George fists his fingers in the hem of his suit jacket.

“Nowhere, baby.” Dream answers, tone sickly sweet. “Just follow me.”

—

Dream leads him to the building’s parking garage and they get in a car, sleek, black, nondescript, but undoubtedly expensive. George doesn’t know why, but he’s surprised that Dream is the one driving instead of a chauffeur. From the radio plays bubblegum pop, and Dream sings along to each generic song after the next. It’s oddly endearing, and ignites something warm in tender in George that he wishes he could temper.

Before they leave the garage, Dream leans over him and delicately changes something on the ankle monitor. It feels strange to have Dream so close. They get on the highway and the bright city fades away behind them as they forge into rural, more desolate areas of Florida. 

They don’t speak for most of the ride, but eventually they arrive at what looks like a warehouse. Dream gets out of the car and George immediately follows. With each step, gravel crunches beneath their feet. George follows Dream to the warehouse’s bay doors, two guards greeting them with a curt nod. 

In the middle of the warehouse, Sapnap is kneeling, hands and feet bound behind his back. 

“Good to see you, Nick.” Dream spits the man’s name as though it is an insult. 

“Don’t fucking call me that, Clay.” 

“Getting feisty now? You think you can disobey direct orders and get away with it?” Dream crouches in front of Sapnap. “We’ve been best friends for years. I saved your life. I thought you’d have more respect than that.”

“Best friends, huh? You don’t tie up your  _ friends  _ in fucking warehouses.”

“You think that’s all you’re here for? That’s precious.” Dream carefully chooses a knife from the table beside Sapnap. “You need to learn your place. Ever hear the expression and eye for an eye?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still a comp sci noob so might be some inaccuracies LOL 
> 
> Also meet Vadim. Vadim is named after my Russian Professor’s husband who is a bee keeper.
> 
> I’ll try to update other works soon I’m just really having fun with this one for now :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // check new tags and also warning for dubious consent in regards to non-sexual knifeplay
> 
> As always, feel free to lmk if there’s anything untagged that you think should be :)

“You’re getting revenge on me, is that it? You want to kill me now?” Sapnap snarls. “After all we’ve been through. I guess I should’ve seen it coming after you murdered your father.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.  _ We’re all friends here.”  _ Dream sneers mockingly. “I’m not going to kill you. If I wanted you dead your corpse would already floating in septic waste.” 

Gently, Dream takes George’s wrist and pulls him toward where Sapanap kneels. “George is just going to teach you a lesson.” 

“What are you doing, Dream?” George tries to pull away when a knife is pressed into his hands, but Dream holds him in place firmly.

“It’s what  _ you’re _ doing, George. Proving yourself to me, and teaching Sapnap a lesson. It’s simple.” 

George closes his eyes and takes a breath, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t, Dream. Please.” He says shakily. It’s funny, that George is the one crying.

“I’ll be with you the whole time, George.” Dream smiles sweetly and gently coaxes George’s hands into a pair of thick leather gloves. “I’ll guide you every step of the way.”

“I mean it, I can’t.” George croaks. Though he’s not even entirely sure what he’s saying ‘no’ to, just that he can’t do it.

Dream sighs. “It’s you or him, when it comes down to it. Are you really going to let him walk all over you? You said it yourself, he’s just a fucking crack whore.”

“Just fucking get it over with, George. It’ll be better for both of us.” Sapnap grits out, head hung in defeat.

“See, even Sapnap knows.” Dream grins maliciously. 

George glances toward Sapnap once more who gives him an almost imperceptible nod. Wordlessly, he takes the knife—long and thin—from Dream.

“What do you want me to do?” George stutters. 

Dream holds out a small wooden box lined with dark green velvet. “His eye. I want it in here.”

“How?” George gapes.

“However you see fit, baby doll.” Dream takes George’s hands and gives them a brief squeeze. “I’ll help you, okay?”

“Okay.” George mumbles. He can’t believe he’s actually doing this. His teeth feel too large for his mouth and don’t fit together right. He grinds his molars and tries to steady himself.

Hesitantly, he kneels in front of Sapnap’s face. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, quiet enough that Dream can’t hear. 

“Remove the eyelid, it’ll be easier to get to the socket.” Dream orders.

George almost chokes on his own tongue. He holds the blade above Sapnaps’s closed eye, before plunging it into the crease of his lid, just beneath the brow bone. Blood sprays from the wound in a thin mist.

The sound Sapnap makes is one George will never forget. It begins as a low moan but grows louder to a crescendo of agony. He’s sobbing, shrieking, wailing. Sounds of torment pain and torture. George cuts a small half moon shape to detach the lid from the skin. After a brief tug, the skin detaches.

It feels like an out of body experience. George doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his own actions, though he’s oddly calm. He obeys Dream’s suggestions though he can hardly hear his own thoughts. 

With his fingers, he digs into Sapnap’s eye socket so he’s able to grip the eyeball. Eventually, the screams fade into whimpers and then silence. George pulls the eyeball out far enough to expose the optic nerve connecting it to the brain. Without a second thought, he severs it and places it in the box that Dream gave him.

“That’s beautiful.” Dream pushes George’s sweaty hair out of his face and crouches beside him. “You did so good for me.” 

George swallows around his nausea and stares at Sapnap’s face: his mouth seems set in a permanent frown and his fingers are white where they twist into the fabric of his bloodstained shirt. The place where his right eye once was is grotesque and harrowing to look at. The empty, naked eye socket gapes widely and crimson blood streams from the opening. The pale pinkness of skin and exposed bone of what George prays isn’t his skull glistens in the fluorescent lighting of the warehouse. 

“He’ll be fine. The surgeons will patch him up.” Dream tells George reassuringly. “But that was fucking hot.”

George’s stomach turns unpleasantly. He feels Dream come up behind him and locking his arms around George’s chest. Dream presses kisses up the side of George’s neck. Something hard presses against George’s back and he wants to puke.

“We should go, Dream.” George says meekly and tries to break away.

“Perhaps we should.” Dream chuckles darkly. 

—

Memories of slaughterhouses he’s seen before and this warehouse blur into one continuous nightmare when George sleeps. The sour scent of blood lingers in his nose, and its redness seems to be permanently freckled across his skin no matter how hard he scrubs. 

It’s easier to sit at his desk when it’s dark out. Coding grows painful and monotonous, but it’s safe. The moon’s pale face greets him each night, laughing while George bashes his shoulder into the bulletproof glass of his window. He wants it to break. He wants to fall.

He wants it to be over so he can finally sleep again.

“You don’t sleep anymore. I see it on the cameras at night.” Dream takes the thumb drive from George, but he doesn’t look happy. “What’s the problem?”

“I can’t sleep.” George answers bluntly. He doesn’t care much what Dream thinks of him at this point. It’s not like he can hide anything.

“Your code is getting sloppy lately. You’re not as sharp or efficient as you used to be. It’s unacceptable.” Dream sighs.

George frowns. Of course Dream doesn’t care about him. Just about the product. And he’s foolish to have ever let himself start to think otherwise.

“But I know that you’re too special to get rid of.” Dream opens up one of his desk drawers and George awkward shifts in the seat across from him. “Here, try these.”

“Xanax? I don’t have anxiety or anything.” George says even though it feels like a lie.

“I don’t give a shit. You need to sleep. Take them if you’re on edge. Snort it if you want, I don’t give a shit.” Dream tells him boredly. “You’re not fun anymore. Don’t bring me your next project until you fucking fix this shit.”

George tries for a few days to sleep on his own. He asks Vadim to bring him melatonin and other natural bullshit. Maybe he sleeps, but the nightmares are all the same, except he gets stuck in them more often than not. It's worse than before. But still, George doesn’t like the idea that Dream is sedating him, controlling him, keeping him pliant and demure.

The small white pills mock George. But he’s only a man, so it doesn’t take long until he tears into the fucking ziplock bag Dream gave them in and chokes one down dry. 

Soon after, he starts to feel floaty, almost drunk but not quite. Sleepy, but still aware of his surroundings. Everything seems smoother, his pain sanded down to something that can’t hurt him. It’s blissful. He falls back into his bed and closes his eyes. He falls into a dreamless sleep, and wonders if this is what death feels like. 

—

“I’m taking you out to dinner tonight, George.” Dream lounges on his couch, dozens of papers splayed on the coffee table. George glances at them briefly, rows of numbers line the page with little dollar signs attached to them. Finances were always Wilbur’s thing, but George regrets not listening when he would go on a spiel about economy shit.

George frowns. He was hoping to have a date with a couple of Xanax and the bottle of champagne Dream left outside his door last week.

“You don’t want dinner?” Dream narrows his eyes, and the last bit of George’s sense of self preservation kicks in. “Well, what is the answer, huh?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just thinking about that last assignment you had for me. I was hoping to get it to you by tomorrow.” George lies through his teeth.

“Take the night off. I’ll forgive it.” Dream waves his hand dismissively.

“Thank you, Dream.” George says automatically, voice devoid of emotion.

Dream doesn’t seem to notice. “I want you to wear your black suit. The one with the white trim.” 

—

The suit is gorgeous. George checks himself out in the mirror and has to admit Gene knew what he was doing. It’s slightly looser than before, probably because all he eats are Doritos and prescription pills. But it’s still stunning. 

He slides a silver ring on his hand. He figures Dream probably forgot it there when he came to pick up the flash drive last time.

When he leaves his apartment, Dream is already outside his door. He’s leaning casually against the wall and scrolling through his phone. He’s wearing a white suit with black trim and a black tie with undertones of emerald green. It’s hard for George to recognize this man as the violent, murderous, mobster he is. He lets himself enjoy the view before Dream notices him.

“You look beautiful.” Dream laughs and wraps George into a bear hug. If it weren’t for the gun tucked into Dream’s waistband, it would almost feel like a first date. “But let’s get rid of this tie bullshit. I want to see your skin.”

Dream nearly tears the silk tie from George’s neck. It probably costs a few hundred dollars, but Dream throws it onto the ground. He undoes the top few buttons of George’s shirt.

“That better.” Dream grins. “Your hair is getting longer. I like it. You don’t look like such a fucking nerd anymore.”

“Thanks.” George answers curtly. “Where are we going?”

“I think you’ll be surprised.” 

—

The restaurant  _ does  _ surprise George. He had expected a stuffy French restaurant or something of the like. Instead, he’s greeted by what looks like the richer cousin of Rainforest Cafe. Spanish moss hangs from the balconies of the building and what he thinks is Japanese is scrawled on an elegant wooden sign. Shades of brown color the exterior and brass lanterns cast warmth on the terra-cotta walls. Distantly, he can smell a fire burning.

“Ever had hibachi?” Dream smirks.

“Yeah, but I’m from England.”

“You bastards probably put beans on that shit, right?” Dream snorts.

“I’m sure someone does.” George allows himself to smile. 

“Come on, we have the whole place to ourselves.”

“Holy fuck.” George mutters to himself. 

If the exterior of the restaurant was impressive, the interior is otherworldly. George runs his hand along the rich wood of the table they sit at. Part of him wishes he had a phone to document this once in a lifetime experience. It’s easy to forget Dream kidnapped him and ruined his life, when he’s being spoiled like this. Perhaps his life before was actually worse, Dream treats him well. Maybe Dream saved him. 

“You like it?” Dream’s voice beckons George from his thoughts.

“I do. It’s amazing here.” George smiles genuinely.

“I’m glad.” Dream reaches across the table and squeezes George’s hand. “I’ll be right back. The chef here is great, I’m just going to speak with him for a minute.”

George’s mind goes blank with fear. He could run right now. He could have one of the waiters call the police. He could escape. But something stops him. He’s terrified, not of Dream, but that he doesn’t want to leave anymore.

—

Dream swirls the amber liquid in his glass, and brings it to his lips but doesn’t take a sip. In the dim light, its amber color seems to match his eyes.

“What did you say, pretty boy?” Dream chuckles lowly.

George fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves and swallows roughly. “We had an agreement.”

“What if,” Dream begins, voice raspy and hoarse. “I want more than that.”

He stands up and moves to stand before George, briefly lifting up his shirt to expose cold steel against tanned skin. Up close, Dream looks young and smells like warm honey and caramel. It’s fitting. The most dangerous things are the most enticing. Dream is the apple in the Garden of Eden. George still can’t figure out where he fits in. Perhaps he’s Eve, foolish but evil in her own right, and lusting to take a bite. 

“I want you, George.”

A snakelike voice in his mind hisses that he wants this too.

“Dream.” George whispers.

“Call me Clay.” Dream says huskily. 

“What?” George feels his jaw go slack. It feels like he’s playing with fire.

“Say it. Call me by my name.” He rasps and twists his fingers in George’s hair. “Say it, baby.”

“Clay.” George whimpers when he pulls away. 

Clay grins and leans down to pour another glass of whiskey. He hands it to George. “Here’s to us.”

“To us.” George downs the glass. There’s a sense of finality to it. He feels like he’s just signed his life away—impossible, since it hasn’t been his own for a while.

“Fuck, I love you.” 

George ignores how it makes him feel sick.

“Shit, hold on. Let me get a knife.” Clay clumsily rummages through the items on the table and reveals a simple letter opener. 

“Some dagger.” George snorts, tongue sharp with the buzz of liquid confidence. “Are you going to shank me?”

“Not right now.” Clay pushes George back onto the couch and leans over him, expression unreadable.

“Clay?” George tries to pull away when Clay goes for the fly of his pants and pulls them down despite his resistance. “What are you doing?”

“Relax, okay? I’m just making you mine.” 

“Stop it.” George begs and tries to push him away. “Please.” 

“If I wanted to fuck you, my dick would already be down your throat. So fucking sit still for a second goddamn.” Clay huffs and pushes George back down by his throat. 

George chokes on his tears as Clay slowly and carefully carves the word  _ ‘Dream’  _ into the meat of his thigh, blood beading delicately across the crudely made letters.

“Beautiful.” Clay presses his lips to George’s hungrily, fingers still digging into George’s legs, smearing the blood messily. “You’ll get inked eventually, but this is good for now.”

“Will it scar?” George feels trapped in his own mind. Hesitantly, he traces the letters, red staining his fingertips. It feels romantic, but he hates himself for thinking so.

“God I hope.” Clay breathes. “I’d love to ruin you. Leave you bruised and bloody. You’d like that, baby.”

“I would, Clay.” George tells himself that he’s lying. He hates how he likes it. He feels branded like a fucking animal and  _ he loves it in his bones.  _

_ He abducted you, he’s holding you captive.  _ George reminds himself, but it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

—

“I want you to start coming to meetings with me.” Clay sets a warm mug of coffee in front of George. It’s domestic and makes his heart ache. “Sapnap isn’t recovering as quickly as I had hoped and I’m not waiting any longer.”

“Me?” George grimaces around the slice of toast in his mouth. “I’m just the computer guy.”

“Not to me.” Clay snaps. “And that means not to anyone else. You’re part of this now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, George. I had been watching you for months. I always knew that you’d be the one I could finally build the Brotherhood with. Let me bring you to greatness. I want to share this with you.”

George reminds himself that Clay is power hungry, so much so that he killed his own father to get what he wanted. But maybe there’s more to the story, because to George, the man before him is not the ‘bloodthirsty kid’ that Wilbur had hinted at. Instead, George asks, “What do you mean  _ months?” _

“I thought it was obvious. I had Wilbur become friends with you for me.” Clay frowns. “I thought you would’ve realized after all we’ve discussed.”

“Oh.” George sets his toast down. Of course his entire fucking friendship was a lie.

“However bad you think I am, I’d never deceive you like that. I promise.”

“I know. It’s just a lot to take in.” George digs his nails into the flesh of his arm. “You know what? Fuck him. I hope he rots in hell or some shit.”

“That can be arranged.” Clay chuckles lowly.

—

“Sapnap?” George squints into the darkness of his living room. “What are you doing here?” He asks nervously.

“Be quiet.” Sapnap hisses. He wears an eyepatch but it doesn’t hide the severe bruising marring his face. 

“I did that to you.” George feels fear rise in his chest. 

“Don’t give me any apology bullshit, can you give me a damn second?” Sapnap says hurriedly. “This is fucked, George. It’s going to all end.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re in your little bubble so you don’t even know what the fuck Dream is really doing.” Sapnap slams his fist against the wall, but continues to whisper. “He’s going to kill us all. He wants to bathe in our blood and paint the town red.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” George hisses. “He could be listening, you know.”

“I don’t give a shit. The hospital is filled with mobsters, all his fucking cronies. He’s doing a purge, testing loyalty through violence. I’d be fine if it were just me but, shit, I don’t want to see good men bleed.”

“Sapnap, get a grip.” George grabs the man by the shoulders. “You’re losing it.”

“You’re still not listening!” Sapnap pleads. “I’m looking out for you. I have been since day one. Don’t you get it? You’re next, George.”

Fear jolts up George’s spine, but it’s quickly replaced with indignance. “What? Taking away your eye wasn’t enough for you? Want me to take your tongue next or something?” 

“You’ve hurt me so much, even after all I’ve done to help you.” Sapnap huffs a laugh, but it sounds more like a whimper. “You’re next, George.” He repeats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendship tip: don’t do any of the above ;)
> 
> I’ve been very overwhelmed lately and stressed so this is relatively unedited, so if you catch any typos I’d greatly appreciate it if you could point them out :)
> 
> I finished responding to all the comments on chapter one and will try to get to two next, thank you for all the support, it makes this all worth it <3


End file.
